Sunday, May 31, 2009

Her life is a revolving dreamOf languid and sequestered ease;Her girdles and her fillets gleamLike changing fires on sunset seas;Her raiment is like morning mist,Shot opal, gold and amethyst.

From thieving light of eyes impure,From coveting sun or wind's caress,Her days are guarded and secureBehind her carven lattices,Like jewels in a turbaned crest,Like secrets in a lover's breast.

But though no hand unsanctioned daresUnveil the mysteries of her grace,Time lifts the curtain unawares,And Sorrow looks into her face . . .Who shall prevent the subtle years,Or shield a woman's eyes from tears?

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

The soldier asks the boy: Choose whichdo I cleave? Your right arm or left?The boy, ten, maybe nine, says: Neither,or when I play, like a bird with a broken wingI will smudge the line of the hopscotchsquare, let the darkness in.

The soldier asks again: Choose whichdo I cleave? Your right leg or left?Older in this moment than his dead father, the boysays: Neither, or when I dance the spirit dance,I will stumble, kick sand in the face of light.

This boy says: Take my right eye,it has seen too much, but leave me the left,I will need it to see God.

More than putting another man on the moon,more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,we need the opportunity to dancewith really exquisite strangers. A slow dancebetween the couch and dining room table, at the endof the party, while the person we love has goneto bring the car aroundbecause it’s begun to rain and would break their heartif any part of us got wet. A slow danceto bring the evening home. Two peoplerocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.It’s a little like cheating. Your head restingon his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.Your hands along her spine. Her hipsunfolding like a cotton napkinand you begin to think abouthow all the stars in the sky are dead. The my bodyis talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained

childrenbefore they turn four. Like being held in the armsof my brother. The slow dance of siblings.Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,and when he turns to dip meor I step on his foot because we are both leading,I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.The slow dance of what’s to comeand the slow dance of insomniapouring across the floor like bath water.When the woman I’m sleeping withstands naked in the bathroom,brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spitinto the sink. There is no one to save usbecause there is no need to be saved.I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowedthe front yard. When the stranger wearing a sheer white dresscovered in a million beadsslinks toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,I take her hand in mine. I spin her outand bring her in. This is the almond grovein the dark slow dance.It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapingfor joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutan slow dance.

About Me

Abha Iyengar is a widely published freelance author, poet, editor and scriptwriter. Her work has appeared in anthologies and journals in India and other countries like U.K., U.S.A, Algeria, France etc. She has produced a poem film titled 'Parwaaz' which has won a special jury prize(Greece).Her published works are Yearnings (Serene Woods, 2010), Shrayan (Blue Pumpkin, 2012), Flash Bites (Authorspress, 2013), Many Fish to Fry (Pure Slush, 2014), and The Gourd Seller and Other Stories ( Kitaab, 2015).